


For Lack of a Mirror

by samwise



Series: Narcissus and the Lake [1]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Bisexual Male Character, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other, Rimming, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwise/pseuds/samwise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's practical, easy and discreet, and it will help him to focus on his work without having to go and find a potential threat to security.  As far as James Bond is concerned, this means that masturbating in his hotel room is a wholly professional act.  Whether it's professional to fantasise about your Quartermaster as you do so is another matter, of course, and it's not a matter he much cares about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Lack of a Mirror

James Bond is composed, and James Bond is sophisticated, and James Bond is practical.  These traits don’t combine very well to the naked eye, and often obscure one another to the point where you can’t recognise they’re present in him anymore.  They always are, though - always there and bubbling away beneath his hard exterior.

Tonight, for example, an inexperienced observer might want to read his behaviour as an indication of a weak will, or some residual adolescence hanging around in his head.  In a nutshell, it could look like a lack of sophistication, and certainly a lack of composure.  Realistically, though, it’s just a practical, clean solution to fix the dip in his focus that’s been troubling him for the latter half of this evening.  It’s not a problem, of course, because James Bond doesn’t allow problems like these to get to him, but it could become one, and that’s why he’s decided to attend to it now.

He’s perfectly content to be naked.  His body is commonly and openly appreciated by those he chooses to spend his private time with, and approval like that would be difficult to ignore even if you were trying.  Bond isn’t trying.

He looks down to admire himself now, with his long and toned-up limbs scattered with scars.  Most of them are relics from previous patriotic efforts, and some of them are from recklessness as a teenager.  One of them is from sex.  He traces his finger over that one now – a thin, dark smudge-like mark on his skin that is still fading after over ten years.  She’d gripped him so hard with those long false nails of hers.  They were ugly things, but he quite likes the memory of how one of them dug in and scratched him.  He’s fond of the scar.

He can’t remember her name, or even if he ever knew it at all, but he remembers those nails.

Bond smooths his hand down over his stomach and down to his thigh, content to watch his cock twitch already at the light friction on his sensitive skin.  He could find a girl if he wanted one, but he doesn’t.  He’s good at this, and tonight he feels selfish.  He doesn’t need her energy to get off, whoever _she_ might have been.  He only needs his own.

He tips his head back onto the pillow and lets his thoughts drift.  They snag on the first good image they find, and he closes his eyes to welcome it.

The hotel room is warm and dark around him, and he thinks of Q’s plummy pink lips wrapped wet and wanton around his cock.

The boy is young, of course.  Bond knows this, and he’s capable of acknowledging it even as he wanks himself off to the thought of this act.  The sheer fact he’s _boy_ and not _man_ in Bond’s mind should really tell it all, but he’s somehow he’s both _boy_ and the most middle-aged creature he has ever met, and maybe that excuses it.

The clock ticks loudly from the mantelpiece.  It’s an expensive hotel room with a four-poster bed, a small chandelier and the works, but Bond ignores all the finery as he licks his lips and imagines drawing a line up the inside of his Quartermaster’s thighs with his tongue.

He swears quietly.  This is rare, but not a problem.  He has never felt a need to contain himself in these situations, so it seems useless to start now.  Bond is not noisy in sex, regardless of whether or not there is a partner for him to fuck, and that quiet swearing or grunting is about as offensive as the volume gets.  This is manageable.  He isn’t called strong and silent for no reason, after all – but he invents the sounds of Q’s whimpers and moans and begging sobs, and spreads them in the room around him.

Bond wishes he was here so he could satisfy those sounds, as he’s very certain he _could_ satisfy them.  He has a talented tongue that he just knows would melt every inch of Q’s professionalism and superiority complex; he has hands that have held many legs apart and wrists in place, and fingers as familiar with the human body as they are with guns and car steering wheels.

 _Beg_ , he thinks, and he knows Q would.  He would writhe.  He would squirm and arch his bony young back and plead with James to let him come.

His hand moves slick and fast over his cock, wet with lubricant and pre-come.  He may torment people he sleeps with, and may prefer to tease them, but when it comes to himself he aims solely for fast satisfaction.  There’s no large mirror to stare into here, so there is nothing to enjoy about forcing himself to be slow and patient.

He doesn’t take long.  In reality he comes cleanly into his hand, but in his mind’s eye he comes onto his Quartermaster’s chest, and dips his head to lap it up for a reward of light, satisfied moans.  He allows himself the fantasy.  After all, there’s no shame in getting carried away with your thoughts at a time like this.

Q phones half an hour later.  He’s still lounging naked on the covers, though he’s tidied away the lubricant and been to clean himself up in the bathroom.  He doesn’t intend to leave, so there’s no need to dress.

Over of the course of the conversation, Q tells him he’s arrogant – even goes so far as to tell him he’s a narcissist.

 _I would fuck you with my tongue until you cried_ , he thinks.

“If you think so, Q,” he says.


End file.
